It’s a daily thing.
Forget the slogan; half the state has no idea what it means, and the other half is busy trying to destroy it.
There are places where it doesn’t even apply. Yes, there is ugliness here, too.
But up here in this place, where the red willows edge the watersheds at the foot of peaks as old as time?
Here, enchantment is real.
I’m not talking about plastic stardust and Disneyfied glitter, no magic mirrors or bibbity-bobbity-boo. No dancing brooms and pointy hats, either, no Merlinesque wizardry or corrupting rings.
No, enchantment here is a real thing, a magic older than the mountains, older than time itself. It’s a place where the dust of the cosmos spangles the dawn sky every day, microjewels from a future long past aggregated for that fleeting moment before they relax, expand, disintegrate, and travel into a future out of reach.
Magic dust. Cosmic alchemy.
Morning is torture. Bent, hobbling, in pain. The only thing worse than getting up is staying in bed.
And so I unfold my joints and peer up at a sky still more dark than light, and every day, I am more than a witness: I am a part of, one with, an organic, indigenous enchantment.
I wouldn’t miss it for the world.